


involucrum ros

by 0plus2equals1



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: Double Penetration, Group Sex, Hand & Finger Kink, Oral Sex, Other, artsy fartsy mindfuckery, gender neutral hunter - Freeform, hunter drinks weird stuff and gets banged until they see god, inappropriate use of caryll runes, now with chapter two: threaded cane bdsm power hour
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-12-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 17:42:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25170322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0plus2equals1/pseuds/0plus2equals1
Summary: The hunter helps some rogue Choir members make contact with a Great One.
Relationships: The Hunter/The Choir
Comments: 42
Kudos: 98





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> the only really questionable thing in this is a bit where the hunter is Strongly Encouraged to drink a bit of gross seawater, so if something like that ain't for you, be warned

“Oh!” a voice called out. “ _That_ one!”

The crouching hunter swung their head up and gripped at the handle of their blade. The heel of their boot dug into the gut of a bleeding beast. They tugged the serrated edge of their cleaver through flesh with a wet tearing sound and then drew themself up to their full height.

There were four figures standing upon a walkway above them, garbed in the shining white robes of the Choir, and their peculiar blindfold-capped hats were tilted towards the hunter with interest.

The hunter squinted at them. There were some minute differences between them, some taller, some shorter— one man towards the front had a rather square jaw while one woman had a soft, round face. It was the woman with the soft face that had pointed the hunter out.

“You there,” the man stated. “Good hunter. Have you yet tired of the night? Would you be interested in an alternative respite?”

The hunter narrowed their eyes further. “What is it that you want?” they asked flatly.

“Your cooperation in a little endeavor,” one of the Choir members replied.

“What’s in it for me?” the hunter asked.

“A good time,” one quipped, and another one elbowed them.

“You’ll be handsomely rewarded for it,” the man added.

 _Shifty scholar types_ , the hunter thought. _They’ll draft an essay around me without ever answering my question._ “Why me?” they asked with an air of exasperation.

“You’re a hunter,” the man stated.

“And because you look agreeable,” the soft-faced woman added.

Another voice chimed in. “And because hunters are disposa—”

“Because hunters have a disposition that often leaves them open to communication from beyond the typical common ken,” the man interrupted.

The hunter quirked an eyebrow. 

“Surely you tire of these streets,” the man added. “Choked with blood as they are. Unless, of course, you _are_ beginning to enjoy wallowing in them. In that case, you should still come with us. We’d hate to see the rising tide of beasthood claim another of our city’s finest. We can do our best to treat you.”

“I’m not enjoying—” the hunter snapped defensively, but then they forced down a deep, calming breath. “It is my duty to hunt.”

“Ah, but wouldn’t you like for the hunt to end?” the soft-faced woman asked.

The hunter froze.

“Now _that_ would be doing your duty,” another added. “If you’re successful in this endeavor, perhaps we could end the hunt entirely.”

The hunter watched them suspiciously.

“If you’re interested, come with us,” the man said. “We and a few of our fellows are holed up in a building down the way.” He tapped his threaded cane against the cobblestones before pointing it towards an alley. “We’d greatly appreciate your cooperation, good hunter.”

“And if I’m not interested?” the hunter asked.

The man frowned. “Then you’ll go and cut through your nightly share of beasts and we’ll go ask someone else. There’s plenty of tired hunters about. Goodness, we’re not going to _drag_ you there. We’re not like those brutes over at—” 

The soft-faced woman placed a hand on his arm. “It’d be lovely if you came,” she said sweetly.

The hunter sighed and tapped the flat of their blade against their leg as they thought.

“Alright,” they finally said.

One of the Choir members cheered.

* * *

The house was likely abandoned by some family fleeing the hunt and perhaps instead seeking their solace at a chapel. It was dim inside, lit only by a few scattered candles. The hunter had to pick their way carefully through the gloom of the first floor while the Choir members seemed comfortably at ease. The hunter heard footsteps and a brief laugh from the floor above them. As they approached the steps, the man in front clasped his gloved hand over the hunter’s and led them up the stairwell.

The second floor had likely been used to store food and other goods, but it was cleared of that now. The remaining furniture had been pushed against the wall, leaving a wide-open space floored with gray slate tiles. There were several more Choir members conversing. The hunter struggled to get a headcount. It was difficult to tell them apart with their similar garb and mostly-covered faces. The hunter restarted their counting twice, but they were interrupted by the soft-faced woman clearing her throat.

“We’ve acquired an excellent hunter,” she said happily. “Adept, merciless, half-cut with blood.”

“Oh-ho,” one with a light and airy voice replied. “What a find!”

“And this hunter has agreed to help us establish contact,” the man in front of them said with a nod.

The hunter’s shoulders stiffened. “Establish contact with _what?”_

“We’ll answer that as soon as you answer a few of _our_ questions,” a somewhat gruff one replied.

“You _say_ that you’re not becoming a beast but it is good to be sure,” the soft-faced woman said with a serious nod.

“And, quite simply, we just don’t know where you’ve been,” the man in front of them added.

“Are you Yharnamite or foreign-born?” the gruff one asked.

“... Foreign-born,” the hunter carefully answered.

“Perfect,” the soft-faced woman said, and she patted their arm.

“Fresh blood, then,” the man said with a smile.

 _Won't be missed_ , the hunter swore they heard someone say.

“I do believe the pupils are fine,” the soft-faced woman said, and the hunter realized she had drawn rather close— her breath puffed against their cheek.

“Quick smile, love,” the one with the light voice said. “Just to check the teeth.”

The hunter grimaced.

“Incisors normal,” the man stated after he leaned forward and gave them a good look. He clapped his gloved hands together. “Well, you seem to be in working order. I’ll tell you all about your task.”

He grasped their hand and the hunter was guided towards the center of the room. The other members of the Choir gathered in close. 

“You see, we’ve been… courting someone,” the man explained as he leaned in conspiratorially. “Someone that may help end the hunt. But every courtship has its etiquette to follow. Because of this, we’ve found ourselves in need of a sort of go-between. A messenger. An empty vessel to pour meaning into.”

“A conduit,” the one with the light voice stated.

“And a conduit sympathetic to the cause, I would hope,” the man in front of them added, and his hand reached up and stroked the hunter’s cheek. “Willing. Enthusiastic, even. Far better to pour knowledge into an open mind than one with the lid still on.”

There was another hand upon the hunter’s shoulder, then another palm pressed to their side— the hunter felt a faint ticklishness as the hand on their cheek trailed fingertips along their jawline towards their neck.

They swallowed and they felt the light pressure of his touch bob with the movement. “A conduit,” they repeated.

The man in front of them nodded very patiently. “Indeed.”

“What _exactly_ does that entail?” the hunter asked.

“You’ll drink a glass of water, have a little lie-down, and then we’ll guide you through the process,” the man said.

“The process,” the hunter echoed in a tone nearing suspicion. 

The man in front of them nodded. “We’ll open you up—”

The gruff voice followed. “Open you up in _two_ ways, in a sense—”

One behind them interrupted enthusiastically. “By inducing a little paroxysm—”

The soft-faced woman nodded in agreement. “Quite pleasant, really—”

“Hunters are usually needful of such things, all wound-up and survival-driven as they are—”

“Like _rabbits_ when the night ends, if they’re even willing to wait that long, I swear—” 

“Shh!”

“And hopefully, in your moment of… base blankness, your mind will be made properly pliable, and you’ll make contact,” the man in front of them added.

“And if you do become a good conduit…” the light voice stated.

“Well, we’ll drink in what knowledge we can from you,” the soft-faced woman replied.

The hunter had an uneasy prickle of instinct crawling up their spine. The bodies behind them were pressed close, the soft white cloth emblematic of the Choir brushing up against their own dulled leather gear. The hand upon their side swept gently along the curve from rib to hip. The one on their shoulder lightly squeezed. The man in front of them patted their cheek.

“Well?” he asked. “What say you, good hunter?”

Their breath caught in their throat. Someone’s hips bumped right up against their rear and the soft-faced woman at their side was close, so close— they could feel the swell of her breasts through cloth as she leaned against them.

“I’ll give it a shot,” the hunter finally replied, their voice strained.

The man in front of them smiled. “How sporting of you. We’re glad.” His hand reached up and plucked the hat from their head.

“Truly,” another added, and the hunter jumped when a hand jabbed into their belly— someone was reaching around from behind, searching for one of several of their belt buckles. Fingers fumbled at the clasps and the man in front of them reached down to offer assistance. The woman at their side tugged at their coat, pulling it from their shoulders. Their gloves were yanked from their hands. Their pistol and cleaver were whisked away. Cold fingers snaked beneath their undershirt and the hunter wriggled away from the sensation only to bump their shoulders into another Choir member— 

And they tried to recover their balance and took a step to the side, only to settle into the waiting arms of yet another Choir member— 

The hunter was well and truly surrounded. Steadying hands were placed upon their shoulders as their trousers were shoved down their thighs. The cool air sent goosebumps shivering across their skin. Their scarf slid along their neck as it was pulled away. A few grasps at their wrists encouraged them to lift their arms and allow the undershirt to be pulled up and off. Greedy, grasping fingers dug into their smallclothes and the hunter bucked away from the sudden, startling touch.

“Easy,” the soft-faced woman at their side said, and she petted at their bare chest. Her touch was warm, comforting.

A hand slid behind their knee and nudged their leg upward. As their foot lifted, their boot was tugged off and the tangle of fabric about their shins was shoved to the floor. The process repeated for their other leg and then the hand guiding them slipped up their thigh, trailing lightly along muscle before gripping at their bare hip.

The hunter shivered. There was a sort of dizzying lack of balance between them, stripped bare as they were, and the several Choir members huddled around them in their delicately layered and embroidered cloth. They were all pressed close enough that the hunter felt practically blanketed, but with those many hands meandering across their skin, touching, prodding— the hunter was helplessly exposed.

“And now, your glass of water,” the man in front of them said. Someone behind them stepped away— and the soft-faced woman took their place, throwing her arms about their shoulders and hugging the hunter close.

“Where’d we put the damn thing?” the gruff one who had stepped away asked. He had a somewhat dour face, a slight frown evident beneath his masked cap.

“There’s a pitcher upon the shelf, and a second just in case,” the light voice stated. “And the glasses should be right beside it.”

The gruff man made a huffed sound of discontentment as he glanced around the dim room and the mish-mash of dusty furniture against the walls. _How_ he was managing to search beneath the blindfold-like headgear, the hunter did not know.

The man in front of them turned on his heel and a bit of impatience marred his otherwise pleasant demeanor. “To your _left_. Right there.”

“Ah,” the gruff man said. He grabbed the pitcher, tipped it over a glass goblet, and poured out murky, sloshing liquid.

The air in the room seemed to shift. The soft-faced woman at the hunter’s back tightened her embrace, placing pressure upon the hunter’s throat. The lightly-voiced one to their right wound a hand into the hunter’s hair and forced their head to tilt back. The man in front of them placed his hand over their chin and dug his thumb and fingers against their jaw.

The hunter twitched warily, but, of course, there were no weapons within reach, and they were hemmed in on all sides by white cloth and attentive hands. They shot the man in front of them a wild-eyed look.

“Worry not,” the soft-faced woman said with her lips brushing against their ear. “Just a fleeting unpleasantness before we can tend to you.”

The gruff man approached and held up the goblet. The liquid inside was dense and roiling. The hunter blinked at the heady scent of salt and ozone.

The man in front tapped his nails against the hinge of their jaw. “Be a dear and open up,” he stated with a gentle smile.

The hunter clutched at empty air and scrunched their nose as the cup veered closer to their lips.

“Really now,” the light voice interjected. “This is a much more palatable way to do it compared to _actually_ pouring the stuff into your opened head.”

“Hardly even a sip,” the gruff man said. “It’ll be over before you know it.”

“Go on,” the soft-faced woman whispered, and she kissed their temple.

The hunter squeezed their eyes shut and complied. The rim of the goblet pressed against their lips and their mouth opened. The man in front of them relented his hold on their jaw, but only somewhat— once the thick liquid poured in and they made a choked sound of revulsion, he held their mouth open while the one gripping their hair tilted their head back. The slurry coated their tongue, metallic and mealy. They struggled through the urge to spit it all out and forced their tongue to stop blocking their throat. 

“That’s it,” the light voice praised. The soft-faced woman stroked at their neck as they managed to make their first swallow. They tasted salt and iron.

The gruff man made a little sound of impatience and the goblet tilted further. The liquid sloshed against their nostrils and the hunter reared back with disgust, but the hands upon their jaw and hair held fast.

“Careful,” the man in front of them said in warning, and the gruff one loosely tilted his neck, having clearly rolled his eyes beneath his cap.

They gulped because even if they had to contend with their rising nausea, swallowing the stuff at least meant that it wasn’t in their mouth anymore. The congealing mass slid down their throat and they noticed with great relief that the glass was nearly empty.

But as the gruff man tilted the goblet the rest of the way and the last of the liquid poured out, the hunter spotted movement. Panic like a riptide tore at their instincts and they gagged. There was _something_ in their mouth, moving like water-within-water, a subtle current rubbing up against their tongue— 

Their jaw was forced shut and their teeth clicked. Their chest heaved and a bit of air bubbled up out of them as they tried to exhale. A spurt of the water foamed past their teeth, dribbled over the man’s fingers, and slipped down their chin.

“You’ve got it. Just one more time,” the soft-faced woman insisted. “Go on.”

The hunter swallowed.

“Oh, bravo,” the light voice said in a breathy exhale.

“All done,” the gruff one said as he lowered the goblet.

The man in front of them released his hold on their jaw. The hunter’s mouth fell open and they gulped down an unsteady breath. The man swept a finger along their chin, catching the rivulets left behind either by the cup sloshing over or by their gagging. “Not quite done,” he said as he pressed a wet finger against their bottom lip.

“Oh, don’t get ahead of yourself,” the light voice chastised.

“It _is_ imperative that we get the dosage right,” the soft-faced woman said in his defense. “Wouldn’t want to waste a drop.”

“I suppose,” the light voice replied, and a hand began absent-mindedly petting the hunter’s hair.

The man’s fingers slid into the hunter’s mouth. In a daze, the hunter pressed their tongue against him— there was the taste of skin and salt and spit, familiar and alien— and the man smiled.

A queasy heat flared in the hunter’s belly and they felt lightheaded. There was a gentle pressure upon their shoulder, and then a nudge to the backs of their knees. The hunter lowered to kneel upon the ground. Their stomach roiled and for a moment they felt unmoored, as if the tiles would slip from beneath them, but steadying hands settled them down. With a few tugs, the soft-faced woman guided them until their head was in her lap and they were lying flat on their back. The hunter shivered against the chill of the floor.

The other Choir members knelt and drew close. Curious hands were trailing along their abdomen, but at the moment, the hunter felt as if they could only focus upon the woman’s face as they settled their head against her thighs—they saw plump lips upturned in a coy smile, a hint of red about her cheeks, and a stray curl of hair peeking from beneath the blindfold cap.

“Well, who wants the honors?” the gruff one asked dryly.

“You’re usually the best at it,” the man in the front said with a nod to the one with the light voice.

“Oh, I’m flattered,” the one with the light voice replied, and the hunter heard rustling movement. Strong hands grasped at their thighs and pushed their legs apart.

The soft-faced woman patted the hunter on the cheek. “You’ll like this part much better.”

A slicked finger pressed against their entrance and the hunter inhaled sharply. It circled about teasingly before pushing its way in. The hunter lolled their head back against the soft-faced woman’s lap as it rocked in and out, stretching them gradually open. The pad of a second finger ventured in and the hunter bucked their hips. Every movement they made reinforced the fact that there were several hands upon them, holding, petting, steadying— almost possessive in their grip. 

But no matter how lovely the face looming above them was, the hunter held no pretenses towards romance. This was the possessive grip of fervent scholars upon a specimen that had been pinned and then mounted.

The fingers inside them curled. A bolt of pleasure flashed up their spine. Someone chuckled and another hand drifted between the hunter’s legs.

It was smacked away. “Now, now,” the one with the light voice complained. “I’ve got a _method_ here. Don’t interrupt.”

“Save that sort of thing for after,” the gruff one added.

Another reached into voluminous sleeves and held up what looked like a slug. "Are we _sure_ we don't want to—"

"Too much, too much," another replied, and the slug was shoved back into a sleeve. "We have to limit our variables."

"Hold onto it for the next," the one with the light voice said with a roll of the wrist, and the hunter shivered. "Just let me _work_ , for goodness sake."

“Let’s check on your progress, shall we?” the man in front said happily. “Good hunter, how are you feeling?”

“...Feeling, feeling go- _ah!_ ” The hunter cut themself off with a gasp when the fingers jolted against a spot in a way that sent them reeling. They clutched at the pooled fabric of the soft-faced woman’s skirts and let out a few more repeated breathy cries. Hands gripped at their thighs and held them apart as the fingers inside the hunter sent bursts of pleasurable heat through their core.

“What was that?” the man asked, and he cupped a hand around his ear.

“Fuck,” the hunter exclaimed. Their legs tensed and flexed against restraining hands. “ _F_ _uck_.”

“How enlightening,” the gruff one stated. There was a brief round of laughter in response.

The fingers were in them deep, pressed to the knuckle, and the hunter felt them slip back out—the heated stretch shifting to a needy emptiness—and then the fingers plunged back in. The hunter yelped.

“Well, they haven’t vomited,” the soft-faced woman said nonchalantly as she pet at their hair. “And they haven’t— well. Anyway, I’d say that this hunter is doing very well so far,” she said, and she cheerily patted their cheek. She let out a soft laugh as they cried out and squirmed against the relentless jolting impacts between their legs. The hunter felt the urge to roll over and hide their face within her skirts. 

“Any second now,” the one with the light voice stated.

“I’m— I’m going to,” the hunter managed to stammer. “You’re going to make me—” 

“What did I say,” the one with the light voice preened, with self-satisfaction clearly evident.

A searing sensation flared within the hunter and it was only spurred to greater heights by the fingers still pistoning into them. Their back arched and pushed their abdomen up against grasping hands. The inquisitive, masked faces of the Choir leaned forward and watched with great interest as the hunter came undone. 

Blood rushed to their head and their vision went in starry pops. There was water in their mouth again. _Everything_ was wet. Something was in them, filling them—fingers. Not fingers. They heard the sound of sloshing liquid. They couldn’t seem to hold onto a thought beyond the awareness of the sweet burning between their legs. There was a shimmering light like a rippled pool of quicksilver.

A word, a shape, a symbol. _Something_ settled into their head and they tried to say what it was. Their thoughts now felt clarion clear and the meaning of it all was so simple— and as they lifted their hand they brushed against what was surely the overhanging flowing fabric of the cosmos itself— 

They blinked. The hunter was clutching at embroidered white fabric and babbling something completely incoherent. Like one struggling to remember a dream that slipped away upon waking, they grasped wildly at the dissipating meaning as they bunched the soft-faced woman’s skirts in their fists.

They felt something hot slip down their chin and they realized that their nose was bleeding heavily, the flow of it dripping down and staining the woman’s clothes with spots of crimson. They looked up at her pleadingly.

“There was—” they insisted. “I saw— it was—”

The soft-faced woman gently shushed them.

“You’ve made for a wonderful conduit,” the one with the light voice said sincerely. “But that’s all you’re meant to be. You’ll carry the meaning. It’s up to us to pull it out of you and interpret it.”

The hunter was too bewildered to even ask about what the hell _that_ meant. They pressed their bloodied face against the soft-faced woman’s thigh and groaned.

“That means it’s our turn,” the gruff one said with a jovial smack against their hip.

“We’re not completely without ceremony, now. A first kiss would be proper,” the one with the light voice said, even as their fingers were still hilted knuckle-deep within the hunter.

“And don’t forget to take a sip of the medium before partaking,” the man in front of them added.

“Right, right, right,” the gruff one griped, and he strode back over to the pitchers. 

The fingers finally slipped out of them. As the hunter kept still and caught their breath they heard the pouring of liquid, the clinking of glasses, and the exchange of cheers.

“Would you like a kiss, good hunter?” the soft-faced woman asked as she cupped their flushed face. 

The hunter nodded.

“Well, let’s see,” the woman said with a sigh as she glanced them over. “What would be easiest… hands and knees, most likely. Could you do that for me?”

Their limbs felt leaden but they managed to drag themself up onto their knees. A few hands reached out and swept along their back in a form of nonchalant reassurance. 

“A toast,” one said. “To this one not expl—”

“Not experiencing any unfortunate side effects beyond a little nosebleed,” the man in front of them interrupted as he held up his glass.

The Choir members tilted their heads back and swallowed their cups of churning water— which were filled far less than their own had been, the hunter noted— with gleeful smiles.

“Here you are,” the soft-faced woman said as she knelt in front of them. She trailed her fingertips along the nape of their neck and drew her face close.

The hunter pressed their lips against hers and relaxed into the pleasant softness— but then they let out a halting gasp against her smiling mouth as someone slid into them from behind. They heard a few giddy chuckles at their reaction. Whoever was in them was flush against their rear, already in as deep as they could go.

The prior fingers had surely worked them open, but the hunter had a sneaking suspicion that the hideous liquid medium was being used in a creative new way. And even as their stomach roiled at the thought, it all felt— correct. As if they were a puzzle shaken apart and now being pieced together again, bringing the intended image back into coherence.

Whoever was inside them drew back gradually, dragging the sensation out as a hand pressed against the small of the hunter’s back. Then, just as slick and slow, the person pushed back in. The hunter let out a low and incoherent sound.

The soft-faced woman leaned away from them and she was handed her own glass. After she gulped down the contents, she grinned.

“The mouth is available,” she said lightly.

The spot was quickly claimed. The taste of salt, whether from pre or from the liquid medium, twinged against their tongue. They wrapped their lips around the cock and kept their jaw slack. As whoever was behind them picked up their pace, the hunter let the bouncing impacts do most of the work for them, and their head bobbed up and down the length.

The hunter felt full and strangely steady, as if the grasping hands and the two Choir members thrusting into them were anchoring them in place and keeping them from drifting away. The hunter rocked between them and felt flickers of heat lapping up their spine.

The rhythm of the one behind them grew erratic and with a few more wet impacts the person halted, his cock twitching deep inside the hunter, and he let out a sharp gasp. The person pulled out and the spend dribbled out of the hunter, leaving them with an unsatisfied emptiness.

The hunter made a soft, muffled sound as they canted their hips, presenting.

With a breathy laugh, another person eagerly plunged in. 

A hand clutched at their hair and brought their mouth flush against the base of the cock in their mouth. With a few more staggered thrusts, cum spurted against the back of their throat and the hunter struggled to breathe.

The one in front of them pulled away. The hunter’s lips were swollen and sore. They swallowed, cleared their throat, and tried to catch their breath as whoever was behind them now continued to pound into them.

“See anything?” the one that had been in their mouth asked.

“Just a curve,” another replied, presumably the one that had been behind them before. “You?”

“More of a vertex for me,” the first said with a laugh. “Go grab that Caryll guidebook. We’ll start comparing notes.”

There was a hand pressing down upon their shoulder blades and as the hunter blinked they blearily realized that one of the Choir members had reclined beneath them with skirts bunched up at the hips and legs spread wide.

The hunter’s mouth was pushed against sopping wetness. Their nose nudged against soft pubic hair as they planted their lips around the clit and swept their tongue against it. Whoever was beneath them made a little noise of satisfaction and twitched their hips against the hunter’s face. 

The hunter flexed their fingers against the tile floor. Nails scratched at their scalp as the one beneath them writhed. A light touch trailed from the nape of their neck and along the curve of their spine, ticklish in its gentleness. A hand gripped tightly at their ass, the person behind them stuttered to a stop, and a new burst of wet heat splattered against them. Another person slotted in as soon as the last had regained the sense to move away.

Thighs clamped around their head and the hunter at least had the foresight to gulp down a deep breath. The Choir member beneath them let out a pitchy sigh and bucked against their face.

“Oh,” the one beneath them breathed. “Rather sharp-looking, isn’t it?”

“Scoot, scoot,” the one with the light voice said. “Go look it up and give someone else their turn.”

The hunter felt the coolness of the air moving against the slick smeared across their face as the one beneath them moved out of the way. Another Choir member crawled under them and patted a hand against their sticky cheek before guiding them back down. They pressed their tongue flat against wet folds and closed their eyes. Whoever was behind them came against the backs of their thighs and the hunter felt rapidly cooling rivulets drip down their skin.

The hunter let out a choked noise of surprise when a hand dipped between their legs and stroked them.

“Should we be worried about this one orgasming again?” the one with the light voice asked casually. “Do we know what would happen?”

There was the sound of an inhale sucked through gritted teeth. “Great question,” the man replied.

“Only one way to find out, really,” the soft-faced woman said. “How’s the rune coming together?”

“Wonderfully,” the man answered. “We’ve got the form, but it could use a little more clarity, I think. Make sure everyone gets a go at it.”

“Well, that’s only fair,” the gruff one said, and the hunter let out a moan as he stuffed himself into them.

The hunter lost track of time, of bodies, of wet seeping into their mouth and out from between their legs. Heat burned in their belly even as their hips and jaw grew sore. A tingling electricity built in their core and when it sparked to fullness— 

Their thoughts went white-hot and a familiar blankness washed over them— 

_Ow_. A pang of pain struck their head even as pleasure sank into their limbs. It felt as if they had walked right into a closed door.

The last Choir member bottomed out inside them and clutched at their sides for stability as he came. The crowd that had once been gathered around the hunter had huddled around a table scooted away from the wall, comparing whatever visions had been bestowed upon them. The one that had been in them tucked himself away and joined them. Finally alone, the hunter slumped against the floor, feeling messy and boneless.

The murmuring around the table changed in tone; the hunter discerned a slight argument and a sense of disappointment.

Something thumped to the ground at their side. The hunter looked sidelong at a stuffed-full satchel.

“Your compensation,” the gruff one said.

“All sorts of goodies for your next hunt,” the one with the light voice added, but there was a terseness to their tone.

“Your clothes and equipment are by the door,” the soft-faced woman stated flatly.

A wet cloth landed beside the satchel with a splat.

“Clean yourself up if you care to,” the man said before returning his attention to the conversation at the table.

“What did I see?” the hunter asked as they struggled to sit up.

The soft-faced woman huffed.

“A rune,” the one with the light voice added.

“What did it mean?” the hunter asked.

“We were _trying_ to ask another Great One for help by appealing to her sympathetic nature,” the man answered. “The rune was her response.”

The hunter sat still and gave them an expectant look. “Well?” they said after they were met with only silence. “What did it say?”

“In words you would understand? Well...” the one with the light voice said.

The soft-faced woman pursed her lips. “To put it simply, the rune said…”

“‘Don’t drag me into this,’” the gruff one stated as he crossed his arms.

The hunter frowned.

* * *

The hunt went on and the night stretched long. The hunter managed despite the sore stiffness beneath their belt and the twinge in their jaw.

They could just barely sense the shape still inscribed upon their hindbrain, the little rejection letter of whatever distant god the Choir had courted. The hunter noted with vague amusement that the beasts prowling the streets now seemed much less likely to chase after them, or, in some cases, notice them walking by at all.

The moon hung swollen and heavy in the sky above. The hunter cut their way into the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> title is an incredibly dumb innuendo
> 
> involucrum= envelope/case/container (a la the hunter here being the holder of a message from a Great One and the holder of a lot of Choir members)  
> ros= wet like dew (a la the choir's very own rosmarinus and like, well,)
> 
> this was a real experiment in juggling a bunch of people kept purposefully anonymous but developing the four that do get sort of active roles was an interesting process
> 
> i thought about making this physically rougher (the choir has canes!! canes that turn into whips!! ) but i found i wanted to do a focus on the sort of mental manipulation at play. chapter two maybe someday who Knows
> 
> anyway this was fun to write and i hope you enjoyed!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a very different chapter from the last! there actually isn't much overtly sexual; this is mostly focused on just the pure physical/emotional experience of a painful scene. it is consensual, but it isn't necessarily safe or sane, and there is a moment that is essentially depersonalization (and meeting an eldritch Thing) due to pain. so, if you're a masochist into getting wrecked by the threaded cane, read on; if not, maybe skip this one.

There was pain like their skull had been shaken like a bell. The hunter’s ears ached with the ringing. A patch of their scalp thudded sorely with each pulse; they lifted a hand to tentatively touch it.

Or, they tried to do so— their hand was snagged on something. They tugged their arm and met only taut resistance. They twisted their wrist left, then right. There was a loop of rope, and another, and another: both hands were firmly fastened to the wooden arms of a chair.

A dead calm came over the hunter, masking incipient panic. Their breath remained steady as they flexed their ankles. Their legs had received the same treatment. Their boots refused to budge even an inch away from the base of the chair.

Fear began creeping in and settled sourly in their belly, but the hunter kept their thoughts as orderly as they could. They took a quick inventory of what they knew: They had been hit on the head. They were tied to a chair. Their body ached but only with a general tired soreness; they did not think that they were injured anywhere else. The comforting weights of their blade and their firearm were not at their side.

They glanced from left to right. The room around them was dim; it seemed like a storage closet. The shelves were lined with jars, beakers, balances— scientific equipment of some sort. The hunter twisted their head as far as they could to peek behind them. A few other chairs were stacked in a haphazard pile.

Where could this be? Not the clinic— the floor seemed too clean, the shelves too orderly. They struggled to remember how they had ended up here, the haze of pain in their head making memory murky.

The chapel, they recalled, they had been in the chapel— they had shared a quiet conversation with its caretaker before noticing that a door had been left open. When the hunter had gone out to investigate, they had found the remnant madmen patrolling the Church workshop tower. Curiosity, of course, drove the hunter to figure out _what_ they were guarding, if anything at all. They had been a touch more organized than the roving bands outside, taking advantage of the multiple balconies, shooting down from select vantage points, hiding around doorway corners and ambushing the hunter with whatever they had on hand. A brick in the grip of a man nearing ten feet tall, after all, was as deadly as any other finely crafted workshop weapon.

Had they received a brick to the head? No, the hunter decided; a blow like that would had left them splattered instead of sore.

In any case, they had fought their way through the crowd. They recalled the interior of the workshop, and a long drop to a distant basement that they had decided to return to later. They had ascended instead.

The topmost floor had held a wooden chest— they vaguely remembered finding a gleaming silver badge within it, and then…

There had been an open door at the far end of the room. Curiosity, as it always did, drew them through.

They had crept along a path. The height had dizzied them, with the foggy depths of the Cathedral Ward lurking below, and the cathedral itself stretched ever higher ahead—

And there had been a sound, a little gurgling keen, and the hunter had turned their gaze to the path ahead of them instead of the staggering panorama.

Here their memory was the muddiest. There had been… some sort of creature, small but fat in the way of an infant, or a grub. A line of teeth snapped shut and it gurgled again. It wriggle-slithered towards the hunter and the hunter found that they could not tear their gaze away from it.

In fact, they had been so entranced by the thing that they had not noticed the steady stride of a tall, pale servant of the Church approaching before giving the hunter a solid thump on the head with a staff.

The hunter scrunched their eyes shut.

So they had been caught trespassing upon some highest-echelon Healing Church property. They were now most likely within a storeroom in some wing of the cathedral. They weren’t sure whether to be grateful or ungrateful that the church servant hadn’t merely killed them— or, really, reawakened them. They could reawaken here, too— now that they were fully conscious they had a good enough grip on their faculties to focus upon the hanging hunter’s rune.

But curiosity, the same driving force that had gotten them into this mess in the first place, made them settle back into their seat. They were now well within the lofty heights of the Healing Church; perhaps here, they could finally find a few answers.

The hunter leaned their head against the back of the chair and swallowed around the dryness in their mouth. All they had to do now, they supposed, was wait and hope that someone remembered that they had been stowed away inside the closet.

* * *

The door creaked. The hunter startled. They hadn’t been sleeping, exactly, but their gaze had been fixed upon one dim and spiderwebbed corner of the ceiling for so long that everything else had become a dull gray haze.

Light poured into the room from beyond the opened closet door. The hunter squinted against it. Silhouettes beyond the threshold went from stark shadows to more recognizable shapes: the widely tricorned caps, gleaming silver blindfold helms, and long flowing fabric.

A touch of dread wriggled back into the hunter. They had dealt with the Choir before, but they had been _invited_ , after all. Now they were an invader.

Still, they wondered if they were familiar with any of the Choir members gathered in front of them. With the way the uniform concealed most of the face, it was hard to tell. The hunter supposed that was true for themself, as well; their cloth mask was still tucked over their nose.

“Well, well, well,” one Choir member said, as that seemed to be the only thing one could say when initiating a conversation with an individual bound to a chair and awaiting judgment. “What have we here?”

“A hunter,” another said, “and one that appears to be quite out of their depth.”

“Your place is in the streets, you know,” one said with a tilt of his head and a slight sneer. “Down with the beasts. Whatever possessed you to come up here?"

The hunter warily shrugged.

“Not a talkative one,” another said.

“That can be changed,” one quipped.

“Tell me, for your own sake,” the sneering one said. “Are you hailing from Yahar Gul? Those ones don’t usually bother being quite so incognito, but who knows, perhaps they decided to try something new. That garb,” he said, and he gestured towards the hunter’s leather gear. “It looks as if you just took it off a corpse.”

The hunter had. They shrugged again.

They knew it wasn’t wise to be so reticent, especially when they didn’t really have anything to hide, but there was something darkly satisfying about seeing the frustration upon the man’s face. The hunter’s last interaction with the Choir had gone well enough— well enough that they hadn't _died_ in the process— but they had still been unceremoniously discarded at the end of it. Even if it was petty, they still felt a bit sour. Whatever unspeakable _thing_ they had been made conduit for had treated them more kindly than the Choir had.

The corner of the man’s mouth twitched. When he crossed his arms, his hands tucked deep inside the flowing sleeves. “I’ll grant you a minor mercy. You have one more opportunity for honesty. And if you’re no more than a simple hunter, then I’d like nothing more than to send you on your way. But if you’d like to be difficult, then we can _make_ things difficult.”

The hunter shrugged one more time and watched with humor and horror alike as the man scowled and drew his hand from his sleeve. A sweet but stinging scent crackled through the air, chemically astringent and heady, and the hunter barely had time to wrinkle their nose before writhing flesh pounded into their chest. They choked and cried out; the chair screeched against the floor as the force of the blow pushed it back. The hunter strained against the rope as the tendrils thrashed atop them before abruptly receding. A few growths fell as the source of the profusion was cut off and they writhed in dying jerks across the hunter’s lap.

The hunter struggled to catch their breath and dug their fingernails into the wood of the chair. The man gave the augur a pat to the back of its slimy head. “I was inclined to believe you, you know,” the man complained. “If you were to say that you really didn’t mean to be here, that you merely stumbled your way in. But you… you’re either a spy, a madman, or both. Our methods of dealing with either are roughly the same.”

His thumb pressed against the augur’s back and the arcane reaction initiated once more, an incision in reality bursting open and pouring out wriggling limbs. They were thick, constricting— one wrapped the whole way around the chair and _squeezed_. The hunter hardly managed to grunt as the last of the growths thumped against their stomach.

The tentacles receded. The hunter gritted their teeth. Even if nothing was broken, they were certainly bruised. They ached with each inhale.

“Now,” he said. “Let’s try talking again. You—”

“Just a moment,” a familiar voice said, and the hunter stiffened. From the back of the small gathered crowd, a woman pushed her way forward. A few stray curls of her hair peeked out from beneath her blindfold cap and her face was softly round.

The hunter tried to speak but their ribs still felt at risk of going concave. They coughed and peered up at her, trying to will some sense of familiarity.

“Do that once more, if you would,” she said politely, and the man with the augur obliged.

The tentacles brought forth by the augur lashed against their neck. The chair tipped back; the hunter’s head pounded as they crashed against the floor. They groaned.

The soft-faced woman crouched and tugged the cloth mask down from the hunter’s nose. “I thought that sounded familiar,” she said with a smile. “This _is_ merely a hunter, and one I am acquainted with.”

“Really?” the man said with surprise.

“Really,” the soft-faced woman replied.

“Then it’s a rather needlessly obstinate one,” the man grumbled, and the augur was stowed back within his sleeve.

“That is to our advantage,” the soft-faced woman said.

The hunter narrowed their eyes.

“There was that ritual we had considered that requires a certain level of stubbornness,” the soft-face woman said. “Though perhaps it would be kinder to call it tenacity.”

“Oh,” the man said, slowly. It wasn’t a good _oh_. It was an _oh_ cut with realization, anticipation, and more than a bit of mockery directed towards the hunter as he tilted his head.

“And this one has already been primed,” the soft-faced woman said, and she patted the hunter’s cheek.

 _Primed?_ The hunter’s face screwed up with several conflicting emotions. If the soft-faced woman couldn’t see the color rising to their cheeks, then perhaps she could feel the flush of heat beneath her glove. If she wanted the hunter partake in some sort of endurance challenge servicing her fellow Choir officials in order to contact yet another unknown force, then—

Then it was better than being blasted to death with a slug. They stared at her impassively.

“Good hunter,” the soft-faced woman said. “It is fortuitous that you found your way here. How the world so often blinds us to the obvious! If we had only the foresight, we would have taken you in as an honored guest."

“What do you want me to do,” the hunter countered flatly.

“What you do best,” the soft-faced woman said with a smile. “Endure.”

She drew her hand back, reached into some hidden pocket of the flowing robe, and then something sharp pierced through the hunter’s coat and jabbed into their deltoid. The hunter sucked an abrupt inhale through their teeth. Warmth flooded their veins with the familiar rush of healing blood; any damage done by the augur was soothed out of them.

“You’ll need a little more preparation,” the soft-faced woman said as she pursed her lips. “Would someone kindly untie our hunter and guide them to a more suitable room? I’ll retrieve the infusion.”

* * *

The hunter sat in a chair— of their own volition this time, though one arm was still ensnared in a restraint. Narrow leather straps bound their wrist and their elbow to keep them perfectly still as a Choir member lined up a fearsome looking needle with a vein. To the hunter’s left was a tall metal stand holding a murky glass jar of… well, whatever the ‘infusion’ happened to be. The hunter had learned that their questions about ritual methodology would be met with answers as clear as clay and so they had remained silent.

Well, mostly silent. They kicked the heel of their boot against the floor and swore as the Choir member placed the IV.

The Choir member tsked as she wound an adhesive fabric over the the needle. “There, there.”

“What measure of gauge is that?” the hunter asked. “Thumb-width?”

“Nothing so absurd,” she replied. “But it may be larger than you’re accustomed to. The infusion is rather… viscous.” She tilted her head. “That little pinch, though, is just one fleeting unpleasantness afore the reward. You’ll be thanking me for it in fifteen minutes, give or take.”

The hunter, unsettled, leaned back against the chair. The infusion dripped its way in. They could feel the whatever-it-was creeping along their bloodstream. It felt intoxicating, but in a different way than the revitalizing rush of healing blood. The feeling held a thick heaviness, a sedating slowness; when the hunter tapped their fingers against the arm of the chair it felt like lifting little rods of lead.

They glanced around the room. A few other Choir members were idling around. Most of the figures were a mystery to the hunter but they knew two for sure: the soft-faced woman, of course, and they had spotted the more pronounced frown lines of the gruff man.

There was a memory, brought forth unbidden, of the same man grasping at their hips and shoving himself inside them uncaringly— and the hunter had _wanted_ it, had needed it to keep their mind from drifting away— they shifted in their seat. The leaden sensation spread further from their arm and began to settle in their abdomen.

One of the Choir members unfolded some vast piece of thick fabric and shook it out. Another grabbed an edge and helped to flatten the tarp out on the floor.

“How are you feeling, good hunter?” the soft-faced woman asked.

It took them a few seconds to respond. “Dense.”

“That’s appropriate,” she replied. “This infusion will merely boost your already exceptional resilience.”

“I could almost sleep,” the hunter mumbled.

“I wouldn’t recommend it,” the gruff man said. “You may find yourself in the most desperate of nightmares.”

“I do hope that you’re at least feeling more agreeable,” the soft-faced woman added. “As you’ve been told before, an _enthusiastic_ conduit works best.”

Another Choir member strolled in with a cushioned footstool. She set it down in the center of the spread-out tarp. The hunter blinked at it.

The soft-faced woman approached them and the tip of her cane clacked against the floor. She peered down at the dazed hunter thoughtfully. Her grip shifted, the cane was lifted up, and the sharp bottom edge nudged against the hunter’s chin.

The hunter’s head was tilted upward. They stared at her blearily.

“You’ll give it your best, won’t you?” she asked.

The hunter slowly nodded.

Someone pulled the IV loose and pressed gauze to their skin. An arm looped around the hunter’s shoulders and they were guided from the chair. Their balance felt wrong, as if their center of gravity had shifted; they took an uncertain and stumbling step forward. The Choir member at their side held them steady.

They were directed to kneel atop the tarp in front of the cushioned stool. Their overcoat was pulled from them, as were their vest and undershirt. Once their top half was bare a hand pressed at the back of their head until they were leaning over the stool.

The hunter slumped onto the cushion. The infusion still had their body feeling strange but their mind had cleared with the removal of the needle. The Choir members around them were discussing something at too low a volume for the hunter to discern. A hint of uncertain dread crept into the back of their thoughts. The Choir wasn’t as personable this time, and they certainly weren’t as touchy. The infusion was something the hunter was meant to be thankful for, but they weren’t sure how feeling as if they had been sandbagged was supposed to be helpful.

And their trousers— why were they still wearing their trousers?

There was a resounding _click_ , and the whistle of something speeding through the air, and then there was an eruption of pain. The hunter gasped breathlessly and clutched at the stool. Raw agony had been torn open across their back.

“Easy,” the gruff man said, and someone patted the hunter on the head.

“You will persevere as you promised?” the soft-faced woman asked from somewhere behind them, and they heard the quiet clinking of the threaded cane being gathered.

The leaden infusion _did_ seem to help; the pain was quickly relenting. The hunter steadied their breathing.

“Well?” she asked again.

“I’m fine,” they finally answered. “I’m _ffmph_.”

The next lash made them muffle themself against the cushion. A shiver shook through their shoulders and down their back. They felt hot blood trickling along the curve of their spine.

“If you let it, the pain will give way to something far grander,” one Choir member said.

“On account of the endorphins,” the gruff one grumbled.

“Among other things,” another added.

“Good hunter,” the soft-faced woman said, an unspoken question hanging heavily over her words.

“Go on—“ the hunter cut themself off with a yelp. The impact sliced from shoulder to side.

Someone’s fingers dragged through their hair in an attempt to soothe them. The hunter swallowed spit. They felt as if they were being flensed. But again, the pain faded and was replaced with the leaden deadness of the infusion. The relief was almost worse; it meant the next strike would be all the more painful for the contrast.

“Good hunter…”

“Stop— stop _stopping_ ,” the hunter snapped. “Let’s get this over with.”

“Now _there_ _’s_ the spirit,” the gruff one said with a half-laugh, and the hunter lurched against the footstool as the slotted metal of the chain whip slashed across their back. They had just enough time to gulp down a breath before it tore across them again. The pain was relentless now, and red ran in thick stripes down their back.

“The tarp is working?” one Choir member asked.

“Not a drop shall be lost,” another answered.

“And our hunter?”

The gruff man knelt down and cupped rough hands around the hunter’s face. More than the pain, the sense of vulnerability made the hunter quail; they barely managed to look up at him before their gaze slid down and they winced at the floor. The whip cut along their back. The hunter jerked and the man gently squeezed their chin. His thumb dragged along their lip.

Another lash. The hunter felt the corners of their eyes prickle. Every muscle in their body felt tightly wound and their jaw ached from clenching. Beyond that, the hunter still felt a sourceless obstinacy, a need to prove— to prove _something._ To take each lash and yet be unmoved by it. But with each impact— and there was another, exquisitely agonizing, spanning across the full breadth of their back— the hunter felt closer to crumbling.

Another lash. The hunter swore but it came out as a wordless whimper. The gruff man readjusted his grip on their face. The hunter glanced up at the intricate pattern inscribed across the metal blindfold, their eyes watering, and the way the man looked so calmly expectant caused a twist in their stomach.

Another lash. The hunter twitched and choked back a pained sound. Their teeth were held so tightly together that they feared they would crack. They furrowed their eyebrows and focused as hard as they could to ignore the agony, their vision pinpointing upon the simple blue bow tied beneath the man’s white collar.

“Give them a bit of encouragement if they seem to be fading,” the soft-faced woman said, and blood dripped down from the sharp metal segments as she prepared for another swing.

“You are doing exceedingly well,” the gruff man admitted. “You’re resisting the pain. What we need you to do now is succumb to it.”

The hunter made a low sound, frustrated and uncertain. The gruff man pressed his palms to their cheeks and forced them to look up.

He smiled. Despite his usual demeanor, it seemed genuine. The hunter began to tremble.

“Go on,” he encouraged. “Steady, steady— there you are.”

The hunter sobbed.

“Keep on,” he said with a nod towards the soft-faced woman. “It’s all progressing perfectly.”

She swung. The hunter felt that surely they had been scoured to the bone. But the pain was— was brightening, somehow, and shifting into something new. They were light and dizzy. The tears dripping down their face felt as if they belonged to someone else. When they closed their eyes they saw a dull and pounding red in an endless expanse, thumping in time to their own rapid heartbeat, thumping in time to the swipe of the bladed whip across their back.

And something was there with them, something so much vaster than them, something that made them go rigid with fear. The hunter felt as if they could be so easily engulfed by it and then they would be gone forever. But the seconds slid by— _thump, thump_ — and they withstood the strange expanse without dissolving away.

So this was the true purpose of the leaden mixture— not merely to better let them withstand the blows of the whip, but to keep them coherent while in this desperate and bleeding plane.

The unknown being tightened around them. There was the familiar sensation of a rune forming at the back of their mind, slow and squirming. The hunter could see the shape of it. The meaning was there, but they knew that knowledge would melt right out of them as soon as they returned to reality. All the hunter could do now was relax into the sensation of being so completely surrounded. It was still frightening, how incredibly _infinite_ the being was, but the hunter could sense some simple facet of a motivation far beyond their understanding— they were being _embraced_ , not engulfed— _sympathetic in spirit—_

The lashing had stopped. The lightheaded numbness began to fade. The red relented. And there was a new pressure on the hunter’s face, now— or, not a new pressure, an old one that they had just become cognizant of again. The gruff man pried one of the hunter’s eyelids open and peered at their pupils.

“All clear,” he said. “What did you see?”

“A red… thing,” the hunter said as they struggled to find the words. “Was that what you wanted?”

The man grunted. “Gather up anything that spilled,” he said to the other Choir members. “It should be in there somewhere. After a few dilutions the shape of it might shine clear.”

There were other Choir members close by now, fussing with the tarp; the hunter was firmly guided away from the cushioned stool so that their blood could be collected. They sat upon the tile floor and wavered.

“Was that what you…” the hunter asked again, but they trailed off, suddenly feeling exceedingly faint. They had lost an incredible amount of blood and their back was still raw and bleeding. They felt like screaming, but they hardly had the energy to open their mouth. The Choir was ignoring them, had wrung their use from them and discarded them again.

Something sharp slammed into their shoulders. The hunter shuddered.

“You’re free to go,” the soft-faced woman said as the blood vial began the work of healing the hunter’s back. “We’ll have someone escort you out.”

The hunter clenched their fists so tightly that they shook.

“And we’ll give you some recompense, of course,” she added. “We have vials to spare, if you care to have them.”

The hunter did not budge from the floor. The soft-faced woman tilted her head.

“Please,” the hunter said. “Please don’t leave me alone.”

She frowned at the hunter and then glanced towards the group at the tarp.

“ _Endorphins_ ,” the gruff man grumbled as he sorted through a set of glass vials.

The soft-faced woman sighed, smiled thinly, and knelt down as she gathered the hunter in her arms. The hunter resisted it at first, instinctively fearful of anything touching the wounds upon their back— but the vial had done its work well, and while there were still long stripes of soreness there was no longer overwhelming pain. They pressed their face into her shoulder and clutched at her robe. Her hand swept over their hair and she held the hunter until they stopped trembling.

* * *

The rest of the Choir had hurried off to discern what they could from the hunter’s blood. It was clear that the soft-faced woman was impatient to do so, as well, but she stood with both hands on the handle of her now-clean cane as the hunter sheepishly retrieved their overcoat.

“Which entrance was it, again?” she asked.

“The workshop tower,” the hunter replied.

She tutted. “ _Really_. Of any entrance to leave unlocked, why that one? I’ll have to write a quite strongly worded reminder lest something far worse than yourself comes crawling through that door.”

The hunter finished buttoning up their vest. “So what was this, then? Another attempt to end the hunt forever, with the help of… that thing?”

She hooked an arm around their elbow and began to guide the hunter out of the room. “We have our hopes.”

An intricately carved door opened to the outside. Fog drifted over the walkways and curled around the gnarled branches of dead trees. The soft-faced woman led the hunter down a long path; the hunter could spot the shape of the workshop tower in the haze.

“…Will I have done a better job of it, this time?” the hunter asked. “Getting a good rune for you all, I mean.”

She hummed. “We’ll have to see, now, won’t we?”

“I can’t at least stick around to find out?” the hunter said, frustration edging into their tone.

Her pace remained steadily swift. “A hunter must hunt,” she said with an extremely polite smile.

They had reached an alcove that curved the path to the side; the hunter recognized it as being around the area they had been hit on the head. The door to the workshop was just ahead of them. They took a deep breath, planted their feet on the path, and refused to move.

The soft-faced woman frowned at them.

“I want to help,” the hunter said. “This night— I’ve seen what it’s done to people. And I know it’s probably only going to get worse. I was talking to that bloke in the chapel—”

Pain jolted through them as their back was pushed against brick. The soft-faced woman’s gloves pressed against their shoulders.

“Oh, dear,” she said, her tone so light and flippant that the hunter felt frigid. “You’d like to help? You’d be fine with us keeping you and wringing out every last drop of knowledge that we can?”

Her fingers slid up their collar and along their neck. “Tell me,” she said. “How much did you really enjoy our little session? It can be intoxicating, I know. All that blood, all that pain. And if you remained here, we would take advantage of you, we really would. We’d use you until you broke.”

The hunter felt that it would be wisest to remain silent. They stared at her.

“But I have an iota more restraint than my fellows,” she said, and she smiled widely, showing teeth. “If any other had been in charge of the lash, I am not sure that they would have ever stopped.”

The hunter slowly nodded. The soft-faced woman sighed, patted the hunter’s shoulders, and then took a step back.

“Go on, then,” she said, still smiling, and she waved towards the door. “May our paths only cross again in the sunlight.”

As soon as the hunter was over the threshold, the door swung shut, and they heard a key clanking in the lock.

They leaned back against the door and heard what must have been the _click-click-click_ of her cane as she walked away.

The hunter hoped their blood held something useful. Her teeth seemed awfully sharp.

* * *

“Ahh, the hunter. Alive and well, are ya?”

The hunter shrugged and nodded at the same time. The chapel dweller tittered and wrung their hands. “I understand, I do. It’s a long night, eh, kind hunter?” they said with a quavering giggle. “Too, too long…”

The hunter crouched beside the hunched-over form and let out a sigh.

“Oh! You’re welcome to sit here, with me, and get the weight off your feet, er,” the dweller said, clearly flustered. “You’re welcome to it, of course you are.”

The hunter curled up against the chapel dweller’s side and closed their eyes. The chapel dweller stammered, lifted their hands to their face, and then lowered them again. They beamed.

 _Things are going to get worse,_ the hunter thought. But they’d withstand the night as resolutely as they could, and they didn’t have to be alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always, thank you for reading and hope you enjoyed! hope you liked the surprise hunter/chapel dweller bit at the end.


End file.
